


Where the Sidewalk Ends You Left a Lot

by atlibertytodiscuss



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Based on the Events of 1x09, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 08:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9984272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlibertytodiscuss/pseuds/atlibertytodiscuss
Summary: In retrospect, Mike’s not sure what makes him do it. He can't quite put his finger on the underlying impetus.What it is that makes him scroll through a list of names, scroll through until he comes to one in particular.---Yet another look at that moment that transpired between our favourite catcher and pitcher at the end of 1x09. And the events that follow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from George Strait's "Where the Sidewalk Ends"

In retrospect, Mike’s not sure what makes him do it. He can't quite put his finger on the underlying impetus.

What it is that makes him scroll through a list of names, scroll through until he comes to one in particular.

What it is that has him beginning to write out:

 

B-

 

O-

 

A-

 

R-

 

D-

 

(If he’s honest with himself, he already knows the answer — knows very well the motivation behind his actions. That doesn’t make it any less worrisome. Or for that matter, risky.)

When it's typed and done, his finger hovers over the delete button. Uncertainty immobilizes him, stilling his deft fingers.

A minute passes.

And then another.

He thinks to hell with it. Because either way, he'll have to deal with shit hitting the fan and a crap load of mess.

He presses send. However in doing so, an altogether different type of fear sets in.

A fear that has been lying dormant within him for years — one bred of a childhood of instability and lies — the same one that prevents him from getting out of the car each time he's parked curb-side, watching his father's life unfold before him.

 

_Rejection_.

 

A fear of actually spending his last night in San Diego drinking alone. And it will all be his own doing.

 

Fact: He just wants this mess to be over.

 

Fact: He’s going crazy — like legitimately losing his fucking mind.

 

Because for the past three hours, all he sees is  _her_  — God damned everywhere. He closes his eyes, he sees her face — eyebrows furrowed, concentrating on her next pitch. He eyes a head of curls — riotous and familiar — through a window, he does a double take. Disappointment settles in the pit of his stomach. He looks into his glass, he catches a glimpse of her timid smile.

Her words reverberate in the space around him — ring over and over in his ears.

 

_Then win one with us._

 

_Then win one with us._

 

_Then win one with us._

 

—/—

 

All he can do is apologize for letting her down.

(They say you should never meet your heroes.

They say, once the fog clears up and the daze wears off, only then does it strike you that they’re just ordinary people. Human beings like the rest of us — with flaws and faults and every failing in between.

Worst part is, they also say, there’s never any going back.

There’s only ever one chance at a first impression.

There are no resets and no rewinds.)

 

—/—

 

Of course she won’t show up — he’s leaving.

She thinks this is a hit aimed directly at her.

What nobody seems to get is the toll this is taking on him. It feels like he’s abandoning the only family he’s ever had — saying goodbye to the only place that has ever felt like home.

He doesn’t even know why. Why he waived his no trade clause, why he gave the green light — why he threw in the towel so willingly.

(He doesn’t seem to know much of anything these days.

In all seriousness though, why _didn’t_ he put up a bigger fight?)

He’s given his life to this game — and now his family too.

Conversely, he knows deep down, that Blip is right (He usually is — about most things. But of course Mike will never admit that to his face). He’s let the guys down.

He’s let  _her_  down.

Ginny Baker — his rookie.

His  _former_  rookie — come tomorrow.

But what _she_ doesn’t seem to understand — and he can’t blame her because she’s only just getting her feet wet; she’s only now beginning her story — is that his days are very much numbered; time is _not_ on his side — hasn’t been for a while — and it’s a miracle his knees haven’t given out already.

(That he doesn’t have a ring to show for it — that’s an afterthought.)

He wants to tell her that the needle is at a standstill — it’s stuck.

That it _really_ wasn’t his idea to leave.

That maybe he is just too much of coward.

But wanting isn’t getting. No, wanting is definitely not getting.

With the slight raise of his finger, he orders another drink. The only person who seems to understand is the barkeep. 

 

—/—

 

Mike isn’t sure what to expect — stilted conversation and awkward silence maybe.

But definitely _not_ the sight with which he’s met.

_A vision._

A sight for even the sorest of eyes:

Ginny Baker standing at the bar’s entrance, in a black number — that can hardly be called a dress because it almost doesn’t cover enough — and a shy smile that widens just a little bit when their eyes meet.

He nearly asks someone to pinch him.

But then she speaks. And it’s almost heavenly.

 

(Only later will he realize the implication.

She walked out on a date — one that was going very well he’ll learn at some point in the near future — only to stroll into the bar where he was drinking away his ambivalence, contemplating his next move.

Mike Lawson is in trouble — like in some seriously deep trouble — like out of the frying pan and right into the fire kind of shit.)

 

—/—

 

“Your teammates don’t want you to go,” she counters, in an attempt to clarify.

“What about you?” he urges, his heart beating in his throat as he braces himself for her answer.

(Because he needs to know what she thinks — what she’s feeling in this very moment.)

“Part of me wants you to leave for the same reason you want to leave.”

It’s not the snappy retort he was anticipating. But, if he’s honest with himself, he’s not surprised. She’s a keeper, his rookie — and wise beyond her years. Much wiser than she’s given credit for.

She continues, “Because all this trade talk is distracting us from playing the game we love.”

“Driving a wedge in our family,” she doesn’t say, but it is very clearly implied.

Her acute insight is startling. Baseball was his first love — is his first love. Although lately, he hasn’t been feeling much of anything for the game. For some reason, there is a hollowness inside of him — a void.

(A void that for the last half hour hasn’t been feeling so empty.)

When he tells her he’ll miss her, she won’t comprehend — in that moment — the truth to those words; the weight that they carry.

And when she tells him she won’t miss the beard, she attempts her most convincing poker face.

(She hasn’t told him — and she won’t for a while — but the whole mountain man look has sort of, kind of, definitely grown on her.)

When the conversation wanes and they’re just two people sitting at a bar, busying themselves with their empty glasses — occasionally exchanging charged glances — he thinks it’s time to wrap things up. He tells her he has an early flight. She nods her understanding; readies herself to leave. And even though they make their way out into the open air, Mike finds it just a little difficult to breathe. And this time, he’s coaching himself mentally — _deep, slow inhales…slow, easy exhale_.

Watching her turn away from him, as she gives him her back — for the _second_ time that day — unsettles him, to an alarming degree.

“Ginny…”

Her name rolls easily off his tongue; the two syllables leave a novel — albeit bittersweet — taste in his mouth.

He wants to tell her — somehow put into words everything that’s gnawing at him, share the sentiments that burden him. He wants her to know how he really feels about the trade, about Chicago, about—

 

Other (more important) things.

 

But in true Mike Lawson fashion,       

“I nailed your cleats.”

It’s a confession, but not the admission either of them was hoping for.

If nothing else comes as a result of this evening, the laugh that she lets out makes it more than worth it.

And then, Ginny Baker is in his arms — the pads of her fingers pressing into the muscles of his back, her scent flooding him, her chin fitting perfectly into the crook of his neck.

In that moment — with Ginny’s nose pressed into his throat, her breaths warm against his skin — Mike Lawson is _home_.

 

—/—

 

She breathes new life into him as he draws in her every exhale — each one awakening a fire in him, reviving a flame within his veins. Her lips ghost over his and then they faintly touch. She runs the length of her nose along his, the small movement even weightier in its intimacy, with her gaze locked onto his.

The situation deteriorates faster than he would have ever anticipated. Frankly, it’s jarring. It catches him completely off guard.

In his periphery, her car is waiting, just idling at the curb.  
  
If this were one of the movies she's always telling him about — forcing him to watch on occasion — this would be _that_ moment, when he would take the reins in all his heroic, leading man glory and just say to hell with it — consequences be damned:

 

_He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. With his free hand, he manipulates his wallet, easing out a bill and passing it to the driver, relieving him of his duty._

_(It's presumptuous even for Mike._

_Thing is though, he couldn’t care less.)_  
  
  


_His eyes search out hers for confirmation. For certainty. For that conviction that she brings to the mound._

_Bright, expectant eyes stare back at him. They twinkle, the skin around them crinkling as she gives him an encouraging smile. She looks at the driver and nods in tacit approval_ _— whispers a breathy "thanks."_

_At first she simply watches him,_ _eyes roaming his face, unashamedly taking him in. This is her moment; there are no cameras, no prying eyes — just them two._

_Her fingers begin to move_ _— tentatively at first — finding their way into his beard and she begins a slow massage of his facial hair and the soft, obscured skin underneath. The darkening of his gaze wills her on — she becomes more confident in her ministrations, her movements methodical, deliberate._

_When his car pulls up, she's the one who tugs his arm and draws him closer to the vehicle. When she feels him hesitate, she turns to look at him_ _— pupils widened and lips slightly parted. She looks positively ravenous._

_And it registers; she wants it just as badly._

_The last of his resolve crumbles_ — _his willpower shattering on the ground at her feet. The look in Ginny baker's eyes — the vulnerability, and the way she leaves herself exposed to him_ — _that is his undoing._

_In the backseat, he traces little figure eights along the smoothness of her thigh, burning a path into her goosebump-ridden flesh._

_(He’ll tell her later how much he relishes the contrast of his paler skin against the bronze glow of hers._

_And then he’ll show her._

_Many, many times._

_‘Actions speak louder than words rookie_ _— you’d do well to remember that.’)_

_She's turned into him, fingers locked with those of his left hand. Her lips are pressed into his shoulder, her teeth biting at the muscle. It’s all she can do to hold it together. She really doesn’t want to give their driver a show. He presses a kiss into her hair in an attempt to soothe her._

_For a second_ — _just a brief one_ — _Mike considers the aftermath. He can imagine the headlines already:_

_‘Ginny Baker and Mike Lawson doing more than touching base’_

_‘Fellow Padres playing a little hardball off the field’_

_‘Padres pitcher and catcher playing a whole new ballgame’_

_The thought is short-lived and he thinks screw the media_ — _and everyone else for that matter. Because nothing_ — _absolutely nothing_ — _is going to make him regret this._

_Mike Lawson takes Ginny Baker home._

_He takes her to his place — familiarizes himself with each mark, asks about every scar._

_Her body denotes youth and inexperience._

_Her skin is soft, almost unmarred and pliant in the most appealing way._

_Her surface anatomy speaks to years of hard work — of sweat, blood and tears. Years of missed school dances and sleepovers. Her muscles_ — _toned and delineated — are nothing short of an artistic masterpiece._

_He’s never been with a professional athlete before._

_He thinks she may be his first._

_(His last._

_His only.)_

_He worships every inch of her._

_(He ignores the blatant protests of his back and knees. If he never plays another game, he’ll die a happy man.)_

_And when he goes down on her_ — _bringing her over the edge time and time again, attentively coaxing her to climax_ — _she feels the beard burn for days._

_(When she inadvertently rubs her thighs against one another two days later, her breath hitches and she colours momentarily at a memory. She turns four shades darker when she realizes he’s taken in the entire scene, his eyes dangerously dark, pupils dilated.)_

But this is not a scene from _For Love of the Game_ and Mike is definitely not Kevin Costner.

This is San Diego in the middle of August and it's him and his rookie, wrapped in a blanket of indecision on the edge of the side walk — surrounded by a whole lot of do's and a hell of a lot more don'ts.

Maybe Chicago will be good for him. Maybe the change will be good for all of them. It will give him a chance to make sense of all the static and think some things true.

And because the powers that be enjoy constantly toying with him, his cellphone goes off. He can't decide if he's being saved by the bell or if maybe he really does have shitty timing.

She tells him to answer it, though there’s something in her eyes, like she’s almost hoping that he won’t.

He wouldn’t even know what to do — or say — in this current predicament of theirs. So he chooses the easy way out and answers Oscar’s call.

He’ll realize just mere minutes later. As he greets the manager with a brusque “hello,” Mike Lawson lets Ginny Baker go without so much as saying goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> What do you think?


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